


May I Request: A Time Machine?

by uglywombat



Series: May I Request...? [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Banter, Daddy Kink, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Grinding, Improper use of the Daddy Kink, Sexual Tension, Steve Rogers is a drunk liability, Steve Rogers should not drink, Teasing, Terrible Undercover Techniques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26760571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglywombat/pseuds/uglywombat
Summary: In the third addition of May I Request, our reader is out on the mean streets of Harlem kicking ass and taking down names… well, rather, making out with Steve Rogers in bars and trying to infiltrate a weapons of mass destruction dealer. Life undercover isn’t all it’s cracked up to be and tension is mounting. Thank goodness Bucky Barnes is on hand to help out with alcohol. It’s a shame no one can hold their liquor.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Original Female Character(s), Steve Rogers/Reader, Steve Rogers/You
Series: May I Request...? [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908220
Comments: 23
Kudos: 73





	May I Request: A Time Machine?

**Author's Note:**

> This is an absolute joy to write, I love these idiots. 
> 
> Thank you to the gorgeous Caffiend for betaing and entertaining my rambling and mad ideas and setting me straight. This wouldn't be without you.

Spy work isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. 

The hours are terrible. The pay, unless you’re Tony Stark, is a pittance. And trying to remember your undercover character whilst living what is the beginning of a sex-dream with the man of your own filthiest thoughts, well, they didn’t teach you that at spy school. 

Not that you actually went to spy school. Graduating top of your class at NYU and majoring in green technology, you hadn’t anticipated your life revolving around superheroes and analyzing data. Your only education in the art of deception was your two-week crash course with Steve literally abusing you with kale salads and ten-mile runs. 

You’re not entirely sure how your ‘relationship’ had shifted from the sweet mousy librarian couple to the sexed-up, kinky-as-fuck newlyweds literally making out in dirty bars in Harlem. 

It probably didn’t help that Steve had grown a glorious beard that you could literally lose hours imagining yourself riding blissfully. And god, he looks good in tight jeans and even tighter t-shirts that are three sizes too small for him. And that leather jacket? Praise Jesus. Or Erskine.

He gifts you a smirk and his perfectly shaped eyebrow raises as he stops before the white ball. Leaning his ridiculously long and toned torso over the green table, he measures his cue and sinks four balls in one. Not only is the bastard stupidly beautiful he’s also unfairly amazing at playing pool. 

In the corner of the dark and rundown bar, your target sits on a stool downing another shot, a pretty young woman sitting on his lap. He doesn’t look like the type of man to be in the business of weapons of mass destruction, well, at least you don’t think so. But, as Steve keeps not-so-politely pointing out, this is not your area of expertise. 

Having successfully worked his way into the inner circle, Steve had brought you in as his “ditzy girlfriend”. Your one and only job is to hack into their tech and extract what information you can without being caught. 

So far, you’ve only succeeded in playing the hot and heavy couple. 

“Your turn, baby,” Steve coos, smirking as you shudder at the nickname. 

“Thanks, daddy,” you say through tight teeth, your smile forced, and your core singing with delight. “Can you help me take my shot?”   
  


His body radiates intense heat and his breath dances along your neck as he presses his toned body firmly against your back, helping you line up your cue. 

“Now relax,” he husks into your ear, your veins burning as your pulse races. “Let daddy do all the work.” That motherfucker knows exactly what he’s doing, pressing his bulge against your ass, ensuring he is touching every bit of you he can.

“You know I like it when daddy gives me a little control,” you tease pushing your ass back hard, earning a breathy gasp against your ear. In your earpiece, you can just make out Sam groaning and threatening to leave. 

There’s magic in the way his muscles flex as he presses himself against you further. You can’t breathe as he brings your arm back and coaxes you to hit the ball. 

Steve is taken aback as you spin around and kiss him deeply as your balls sink deeply into the net. “Thank you, daddy.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” you can hear Sam gag.

“Your girl is quite the shot with a bit of help,” Miguel quips, his eyes grazing over your exposed legs as you pass him to retrieve your beer. “I didn’t pick you for a Daddy kind of guy, Chad.”

Steve’s undercover name makes you giggle each and every time you hear it. It fits him to a tee. 

“What can I say,” Steve drawls, his eyes darkening, “I’m just full of surprises.”

Miguel, the master and keeper of one of the country’s most deadly weapons scoffs and pushes the woman from his lap. “Well then Chad, I’m a man who doesn’t like surprises. If I’m going to trust you with my business I need to make sure you aren’t going to try and sell me short.”

You yelp as Steve pinches your ass and swings an arm around your shoulder. “You’re just going to have to learn to trust me. I’m a man of my word.”

What neither you nor Steve knows is Miguel is actually Luis, best friend and crew member of Scott Lang, aka Ant-Man. And that this mission is, in fact, a huge set up by your colleagues and friends to pull the wool from both your eyes. Because, despite the constant arguments and vicious mud-slinging, you are in fact in love with each other. But stubborn people have a hard time letting their guards down, and the hurt build thick walls to protect themselves.

It isn’t long before “Miguel” is called away from the bar, and you and Steve return to the apartment. Sitting awkwardly across from one another at the kitchen table in the cramped old place you’ve called home for the past few weeks.

The poke bowl he is tucking into greedily is a rainbow of wild food. You can’t help but scrunch your nose as he shoves a mouthful of raw tuna into his mouth. Trying not to gag, because quite frankly the smell is just as bad as Clint’s locker, you force yourself to focus on the email before you. 

Playing pretend on the mean streets of Harlem is one thing, but being cooped up in an old apartment with the man who makes your blood boil and panties soak is another. Steve is a neat freak, obsessive, and demanding about the state of cleanliness. He chews like a horse and uses up all the hot water. If you thought the kale diet had been bad, this was something else because there was only one bed and no sofa. 

  
  


Sharing a bed with the man who frequently features in your most erotic and filthy dreams is unbearable. And finding release in the shower from the built-up sexual frustration is near impossible under the icy water and thin walls.

Hell on earth is surrounded by plaid wallpaper.

A particularly noisy slurp makes you groan and you lock eyes with the smirking supersoldier. 

“Problem?” 

You narrow your eyes. “Just peachy,” you snark through gritted teeth. You reach over and grab the greasy burger and help yourself to a rapacious bite. The smirk on the blonde’s face turns to a sneer as you groan lustfully, slowly and seductively licking your fingers whilst not breaking eye contact.

A shudder runs down your spine as he suddenly grins and your eyes keenly follow his fork as he picks up a big, nasty piece of thick, creamy avocado. Your nose instinctively scrunches as he forcefully thrusts the green morsel into his mouth. The gag is far from subtle and perfect blue eyes sparkle in victory. 

“You’re the biggest prick I have ever met,” you growl slamming the laptop shut so hard it makes the table creak.

Steve leans forward.  "Next time, say that when I'm inside you, baby girl. **"**

Unbeknownst to you both, in a nondescript luxury condo across from the beat down apartment you are trapped in, sit your close friends watching on. A smorgasbord of food surrounds them as they watch you storm out of the open-plan living space and into the bathroom on the 72-inch flatscreen TV.

“Well, this is going well,” Tony snarks sarcastically before draining his glass full of top-shelf scotch. “So, what’s your plan, Tin Man?”

The joke is on Tony because Bucky has a plan. 

Steve is scrubbing the kitchen clean when he hears a knock on the rickety old door as you sulk under the minuscule dribble of hot water in the shower. Honestly, thank god for dry shampoo because you’d be looking like an electrocuted poodle. He quickly wipes his hands dry before arming himself with his shield as he makes his way to the offending noise. A steady breath, steeling himself for an attack, he yanks the door open to find the hallway completely deserted. 

But before him, on the floor is a basket with two bottles and a note. Immediately recognizing Bucky’s handwriting, he kneels down to retrieve the goodies. The captain’s heart skips a beat as he comes back into the apartment to find you standing by the table in short shorts and an oversized sweater. 

“What’s that?” you ask, brows furrowed.

Your eyes are entranced with the stretch and flex of his arm muscles in his stupid too-tight t-shirt as he places the basket carefully onto the wobbly table. Suppressing a hum, you watch as he picks up the handwritten card and scoffs. 

“Team building,” he reads before rolling his eyes. “Cheap white wine for you and Asgardian liquor for me. What do you say we crack open a drink.”

Drinking is a great idea, because the SHIELD apartment is a dump. 

What had been the only form of entertainment left for you lay shredded to pieces in the bin. It had possibly been a rookie error to take on a game of Monopoly with the man you have yet to have a peaceful conversation with. And now, the irreplaceable Bass Fishing edition of the beloved board game is the innocent victim of a three-hour-long disagreement that had seen three glasses broken and blessed the table with its wobble.

Your mouth runs dry as Steve tips the really fucking-old bottle to his lips and starts to skull. The bob of his Adam’s Apple is mesmerizing as it drags up and down his thick neck. The image of you sitting in his lap, burrowing your face into that thick neck and calling him daddy has you flustered and reaching for the wine bottle before you can say “Yes, daddy”.

Unbeknownst to yourself, the sweet and syrupy wine is no bottom-shelf Moscato you would buy by the truckload when you were in college because it was cheap and got the job done. The mellow honey liquid is easy on the palate and warms your stomach. The Asgardian wine is quick to go to your head and it’s not long before you are both on the bed giggling like children. 

You have never seen Steve drunk before… well, save for one particularly messy night in Thailand on a forced vacation. Thor had smuggled the Asgardian liquor into the beach party and the golden captain had spent the majority of the night dirty dancing with Groot. 

But now, as you sit just a bit too close to each other on the tiny double bed, the energy is intense and electric. 

“You’re so much nicer when you’re drunk,” you mull, your fingers resting on the bed, just brushing his gently. “You should be drunk allllll the time.”

The eye-roll he gifts you is glorious, slow, and cumbersome in his intoxicated state and it makes you giggle. “And you’re still a little smart mouth.”

You dramatically pout and flutter your eyelashes. “But am I a cute smart mouth?”

Steve doesn’t answer, he just smiles lazily, like his eyes are full of hearts before catching himself in the act. “No… no… I…” he stutters before yanking the bottle to his lips and downing at least four shots worth.

“I gotta ask,” you say as you fuss with your fingers in your lap, “why the daddy thing? I really didn’t pick you for the type.”

Steve clears his throat uncomfortably before leaning his head back against the wall. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

You scoff. “That’s because you’re an asshole to me.”

The golden Captain just shrugs and helps himself to another greedy mouthful of the meady liquor. “Maybe it’s my way of protecting myself.”

The “pffffffft” that drips from your lips echoes through the room dramatically, quickly followed with a barking cackle and knee-slap. This Asgardian liquor-wine-thing is great!

“What have YOU got to protect yourself from? You’re a fucking supersoldier, warrior princess, hero hunk. You’re literally bulletproof. Why would you possibly have to protect yourself?”

The silence is deafening and somewhere in the soft drunken fog clouding your better judgment and sanity, you wonder if this toeing the professional line (drunk or not) is wise. 

“I can’t breathe when I’m around you.” His voice is so guttural and deep it literally vibrates through your body. “I have this internal battle between throwing you over the nearest piece of furniture and fucking some goddamn sense into your filthy, unfiltered mouth…”

“Ha, Captain said a bad word…”

“Or,” he says firmly, “I want to take you out on a proper date because sometimes you say the sweetest things. And you have this sadness in your eyes because you don’t believe you deserve good things, but you do. You really do.”

Your body is abuzz with adrenaline and fear. Of course, the perfect man is so acutely aware of everything, he sees the walls of jagged sarcasm and sharp rebuttal. He’s too close…

“You want to rough house me around the tower?” you ask teasingly, quickly steering the conversation from dangerous ground. “You’re a bad, bad boy Captain America.”

You can barely draw breath to continue before you find yourself straddled on his thick thighs, large imposing hands locked in your hair. 

“Oh you have no idea, sweetheart,” he purrs darkly, usually baby blue eyes now blazing and molten Pacific blue. “Do you know how many times I have had to force myself to not throw you over my lap and spank you raw because you don’t know when to back down? And if you do manage to control yourself, which is rare, the need to make you fight back just a little is so visceral I could die.”

God damn, the smirk on his face lets you know that he knows how damn turned on you are right now in this moment. But, for the good of all mankind and your ego, you are not going to let him win. 

“Oh,” you hum huskily, leaning forward, making sure to grind against his thick, hard cock, “does the Captain want to dominate me?” You place your hands flat over his perfect chest. “Do you think you can handle me? You want me to roll over and be a good girl for Daddy?”

Steve growls like an honest to god bear as you draw yourself closer to him, making sure to sit on his rock hard bulge. His hand gently wraps around your neck as you lock eyes. “Baby, you couldn’t handle all of me.”

You smirk as you move your hands to the sweater swamping your body. “I’m definitely up to the challenge.” Steve can’t breathe as he watches you pull the heavy sweater from over your body, revealing the most delicate, white satin bralette. “Daddy, I give you my full permission to fuck me awake in the morning."

Thick hands cup your ass and encourage you to grind up against his arousal and you naturally burrow your face into that sweet-scented neck. 

“You’re such a tease, baby,” Steve growls, his hands tightening against your clothed cheeks. “Making daddy all hard and then cockblocking me. Do you really think you can wait until the morning? Look at you, so needy and wanton.”

Somewhere, deep and dark in the rational depths of your drunken fog, you know this is wrong. Steve hates you, you hate Steve and enemies don’t have sex. 

But… the stilted, breathy wheeze beside your ear is intoxicating and you’re too drunk for making adult decisions.

The haze is so thick you barely register the hands on your ass relaxing and your movements slowing down. And when you do….

“You fell asleep on me, Captain dickwad?” 

Steve is far too comfortable to move, so you lay your head against his shoulder and slowly drift to sleep.

Tony’s hand shakes as he turns off the TV, the sounds of snoring finally cut off as nobody makes a move.

“What the hell just happened?” Sam finally asks, his voice broken and distraught. “I… I… I can’t unsee that. Or unhear that.”

Tony launches the remote at Bucky, Nat gracefully catching it in her hand before it hits him in the face. “I hope you’re happy, Manchurian. There is no going back from this.”

“May I request a time machine so I can go back in time and erase all the filthy sex talk I’ve just had to witness?” Sam’s voice is more broken than before and he visibly shakes as Bruce wraps an arm around his shoulders for comfort. 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’re all being very dramatic about this. They’re not even going to remember this in the morning.”

Oh, how wrong you would prove Bucky.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is welcome. 🍑
> 
> I'm on Tumblr: https://imanuglywombat.tumblr.com 🧡


End file.
